


The World Watches

by Shipaholic



Category: Glee, The Hunger Games
Genre: Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Sexual Content, also swearing, pretty much everything you can expect from The Hunger Games, rocks fall everyone dies horribly and slowly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3063104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shipaholic/pseuds/Shipaholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year that all the Tributes had lovely singing voices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all. This is my first AO3 fic - nice to be here.
> 
> This fic is pretty self-explanatory - Glee characters compete in the Hunger Games (I considered Hunger Games characters forming a show choir, but this won out). The warnings are also pretty self-explanatory. Just an additional note: Finn is in this fic as a major character. I'm aiming to be as respectful as possible, but please be aware in case you'll find his presence here upsetting.

DISTRICT 1

They filed into the square in military rows. The ground was a washed-out ashen colour, barely lit by the sun stationed behind a cloud. It would probably rain soon - or drizzle, one of Finn Hudson’s favourite words.

Finn had kissed his mother’s cheek, then his girlfriend, Quinn’s, before lining up with the boys. Quinn’s father watched him very closely during that part. Mr Fabray talked a lot about how it was important to marry young, but not do anything before that. Quinn agreed with her dad, and reminded Finn of this every time they snuck off after training to make out.

Mr Fabray’s eyes were a little more bloodshot than normal this morning, and he had wished Finn a good Reaping day with a curt grumble rather than doing a big speech. The reason for this was the extra few glasses of wine Mr Fabray had had at dinner last night - the mandatory Fabray family dinner Finn had attended even though he’d just wanted to sit at home with his mom.

It was around the fourth glass when Mr Fabray had called Finn to come talk with him outside while the ladies washed up. He’d turned to Finn, put both meaty hands on his shoulders and said, “We’ve told Quinnie not to volunteer. I know she’s been training hard, but I think you and I both know the Games are no place for her. She’s a talented girl, but she’s still my little Quinn. No point in throwing herself away, am I right?”

Finn kind of thought Quinn would be awesome in the Hunger Games - she was top of their classes in regular school _and_ Career training. That was one of the reasons why he liked her, even if she could be pretty scary. He didn’t want her in danger though, so he nodded and said, “Yes sir.”

“And she’s a delicate girl,” Mr Fabray continued, to himself. “Not like you, son!”

He was probably trying to sound friendly, but it came out kind of pissed off. “Thank you sir,” Finn said anyway.

“You’re a healthy boy. I mean… compared to the rest of ‘em. Very tall.” Mr Fabray squinted up as if trying to see the top of Finn’s head. “Bet your mother never worries about you.”

Finn’s mother worried about him all the time, but Finn got the impression he shouldn’t say that.

“Now, if Quinn were to… get carried away, you know…”

A bolt of panic struck Finn in the stomach. Oh god, this was about sex.

“...and decided to volunteer anyway - well, it’d be a comfort to know she had a strapping young man on her side, wouldn’t it?”

Oh thank god. “Yes sir, I’d support Quinn no matter what she did,” Finn said in a rush.

Mr Fabray frowned. “Excuse me?”

He’d said something wrong. “Uh… pardon?”

“In the Hunger Games, Finn,” Mr Fabray said, patiently.

Finn had definitely lost his bearings. “Well… yeah, I mean, of course I’d root for Quinn in the Hunger Games.” Did Quinn’s dad mean he wanted Finn to support her, like, financially? He knew Finn and his mother had nothing to spare to send as a gift, right? Finn signed up for tesserae every year and his name was now in the Reaping balls three times as many as Quinn’s.

Mr Fabray was frowning so much a deep wrinkle had appeared above his nose. “Son,” he said. “I’m asking you to volunteer along with my Quinn, if she - and I’m not saying this will happen, but - if she loses her head and volunteers anyway.”

Finn laughed. At least, some noise a bit like a laugh came out. “Sir - I - huh?”

Mr Fabray clapped his shoulder, painfully. “It won’t happen, Finn! Don’t look so worried! I’m just saying, _if_ …” He glanced back at the house, although Finn could still hear Quinn and her mom tidying up.

Finn’s face had frozen. He tried to say anything, to make Mr Fabray understand that he liked Quinn a lot, he even loved her maybe, but asking him to sign up for the Games, even with his four years of training, was - was -

“Looks like they’re done,” Mr. Fabray said in his regular voice. He turned and stomped back inside. “Girls! The menfolk have returned!”

Finn had prayed a little, though he didn’t know what to, that that would be all.

But this morning, when he’d gone outside to kiss his mother and kiss Quinn and attend the Reaping and go home, safe for another year, he saw that Quinn had blotches of colour high on her cheeks and her eyes had that viciousness that reminded Finn... a little of her father, to be honest. And Mr Fabray looked like he did in the rare, but not that rare, moments when he forgot to be jolly, and Finn knew that he and Quinn had had an argument. And just before he went off to join the other boys in his year, Mr Fabray had beckoned him with a motion of his finger that was as good as a royal decree, put an arm around his shoulder so Finn’s mother couldn’t hear him, and whispered, “Now don’t forget, Finn, if she forgets herself in half an hour, you volunteer, right?” And Finn opened his mouth, desperate for the right words, and Mr Fabray’s arm tightened around him, and his face was the scariest thing Finn had ever seen. And he said, “You volunteer or I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

When Mr Fabray released him, Finn’s chest felt tight. It wasn’t from impending tears. He was too shocked to think about crying. It was a feeling that this was where his life had always been heading.

He tried to catch Quinn’s eye, but she marched off with the girls. Her gaze was levelled ahead of her the entire walk to the town square.

In the end, it didn’t matter. The escort from the Capitol drew the paper out of the Reaping ball and read out, “Quinn Fabray!” as clear as the word of god. Or the word of Russell Fabray.

The stage swam in front of Finn’s eyes as Quinn walked past him. She was shaking. He caught enough of her face to know that she had never intended to volunteer.

Numbness spread through his whole body as the boy’s name was read out, and he raised his hand towards the sky.

 

DISTRICT 2

“I volunteer.”

Corvin paused. He glanced down at the paper in his hand that read the name of the girl tribute - irrelevant now - then back at the girl in the crowd who had already snaked her way to the front. Dark-haired, brown-skinned, athletic like all Careers, the muscles in her arms stark due to emaciation. A black eye, a day or two old, stood out above her bruised cheekbone. She cocked her head and blinked insolently up at him.

Corvin didn’t care for the people in the Districts. Poverty and hunger made for a boring populace. The Career districts were improvements, in that the bloodlust they cultivated among their children was quite entertaining, but not by much. Nonetheless he took a moment to form a special dislike of this girl who had interrupted him on camera.

“It is customary to wait until after the tribute’s name is read before volunteering.” He held up the paper again. “The female tribute for District 2 is Clemency Phillis.”

The crowd stirred further back, wherever Clemency Phillis was, but the girl at the front spoke over him. “The tribute for District 2 is Santana Lopez. Excuse me for speeding this thing up. I know you like to draw it out to give us all time to crap our pants.”

The cameras all crept closer in the pause that followed. Corvin swiftly calculated her odds of survival. Career but skinny, shorter than the average winner, couldn’t stay out of fights long enough to make it to the Reaping. He gave a thin smile. The odds were sufficiently out of her favour.

“Please,” he said, extending an arm.

Santana tossed her hair back and ascended.

 

DISTRICT 3

Oh God, oh no.

Tina Cohen-Chang tried not to cry as she climbed the steps, but by the time she reached her place onstage her face was screwed up and she was ugly-sobbing in front of the whole of District 3 - no, the whole country. Fucking cameras.

“Ah, she’s nervous!” cooed the moron introducing her, teeth flashing in his orange face. He patted her shoulder once only, before dipping his hand into the glass ball containing the boys’ names. “And the male tribute for District 3 is -”

A sob caught in Tina’s throat and made her cough so loudly she almost didn’t hear the announcement of “Arthur Abrams!”

She definitely heard the cries going up from the crowd.

Oh god. He was in her year. He was -

It took nearly five minutes for him to wheel over the square’s broken cobbles to get to the stage. Another boy had to carry him up the steps. He and the announcer had a hushed conversation, and then there was a clumsy shuffle to get a chair onstage. Finally Artie was hauled up, deposited in the chair, and the other boy got to scurry away with that familiar look: stricken but relieved.

Tina wiped her eyes. She glanced at him where he sat on the other side of the orange escort. Artie was chalk-pale. He sat stiffly, blinking back tears, but unlike Tina, he didn’t let them fall.

All she could think was, _I won’t even get the sympathy vote_.

 

DISTRICT 4

“- Brittany Pierce!”

Oh yeah. “I volunteer.”

The woman on stage with the hair like a bad mushroom looked confused. The girl next to Brittany whispered, “You got picked, you don’t need to volunteer.”

Brittany stared back at her. Reapings were confusing.

She kept her arm up as she walked to the stage, just in case.

 

DISTRICT 5

The girl tribute kept trying to catch Blaine’s eye as they made their way through the Justice Building. He felt that he should oblige her, give her a smile or some kind of support, but he somehow knew that if he attempted any movement besides the jerky, military walk carrying him through the corridor, he’d -

Cry? Fall down? Scream?

They reached the room in which they were to say goodbye to their families. The escort from the Capitol who had announced their names put a hand on each of their shoulders. She had been nothing but efficient and gentle all morning. Before she could speak, the girl tribute let out a wail and collapsed on the floor.

The escort and an aide swooped on her, tutting. Blaine stared straight ahead at the wooden door they had been about to open. His jaw had locked. Breathing was impossible through a vice-tight throat. In another life he would have tried to help the girl. Maybe he would have assured her she might win.

He ended up waiting alone while the girl was revived in the bathroom. There were two chairs, but he didn’t sit down.

Cooper arrived first. Blaine was strangely glad to see him. Cooper’s flair for the dramatic was greatly enhanced by the prospect of his baby brother going into the Hunger Games. There was a lot of pointing. Blaine nodded through the short, one-sided conversation. Mechanically returned Cooper’s hug. He waved goodbye, and felt less than he expected, knowing this was the last time he would see his brother.

When his parents appeared around the door, their faces crumpled. Blaine found his airway restricted again. This time two hot tears slid down his cheeks and he had to turn to the window and watch his face contort in the glass, sobbing silently and with no breath.

He didn’t hear what they said. They pulled him to them and cried, his father into his hair, his mother into his shoulder.

They got a little more time to say goodbye than was usual. Blaine supposed that was the last privilege he was likely to receive as the mayor’s son.

 

DISTRICT 6

Kurt Hummel exchanged a look with Mercedes Jones at the side of the stage. Like many of their looks, it contained multitudes. God, he was glad to be doing this with her. The Hunger Games should never be faced without your best friend.

It was the first time for either of them, being mentors. As expected, so far it sucked. It was the end of the ceremony, and the odds had spoken: Rachel Berry and Noah Puckerman. She was his age, tiny and shrill. He was older, brutish, bad-tempered. Both of them normally acted like they were hot shit, in their own way. Neither looked it now.

“Haha, you get the teen of mean,” Mercedes whispered.

Kurt muttered back, “Haha yourself, Rachel looks like she’s going to throw up, and I will not step in to save you.”

Mercedes rolled her eyes. “Please, I hid out under a freaking mutated bear corpse during my Games, and those bodily fluids were nastier than anything coming out of -”

The sallow-faced man from the Capitol doing the announcements shot them an unpleasant look, and Kurt realised the ceremony was ending. Everyone on stage rose while the escort did a quick speech. Kurt didn’t need to look at Mercedes to know she too was mouthing along to the declamation:

“May the odds be ever in your favour.”

He eyed their two Tributes again as they all trooped offstage. Nope and nope.

Rachel actually did throw up once they were out of view of the audience. She stood trembling with the mess all down her dress, tears leaking from her eyes. The man from the Capitol curled his lip and motioned an aide to clean her up. Kurt and Mercedes made up the rear of the procession as they went inside the Justice Building.

Noah Puckerman dropped back as they walked along the first corridor, past the aides and the Peacekeepers, who eyed him with hostility as if he was about to make a run for it. Instead, he fell in line with Kurt and Mercedes, a scowl etched into his face.

“Don’t bother coming along,” he said to Kurt. “I don’t need a mentor, and no offence, but I wouldn’t want a chick teaching me how to fight anyway.”

“No offence taken,” Kurt deadpanned. “By the way, I killed five tributes in hand-to-hand combat with sai swords when I was fifteen years old to win my Hunger Games.”

Noah opened his mouth, paused for a long moment, then shut it again.

“Very wise.” Kurt looked him up and down; Noah recoiled. “Oh god, you won’t catch gay from me.” Noah now looked like he was chewing his tongue. Kurt ignored this and checked him out again. Tall, which was a good sign. Meant he probably got more to eat than most others. Muscled too, with biceps visible through his shirt sleeves. Kurt betted he lifted weights.

“Noah, you have a shot,” he said.

Noah looked flattered, then clearly tried to hide it. “Yeah? Awesome. And it’s Puck.” He glanced forward to where tiny Rachel was still dabbing at the puke on her dress with shaking hands. To Kurt’s surprise he showed some tact by not asking his question out loud, but rather indicating it with expressive eyebrow scrunches.

Kurt didn’t require any time to calculate Rachel’s chances. “No,” he said.

Noah-or-Puck frowned as they kept on to the room at the top of the building. Maybe he knew Rachel. Or maybe he just wasn’t a total neanderthal. Good - Kurt could teach him how to murder twenty-three other kids with a clear conscience.

 

DISTRICT 7

“...Lauren Zizes!”

“Aw, shit.”

 

DISTRICT 8

“...Wade Adams!”

It took a moment for Unique to realise that he meant her. Her eyes lifted to tiny, frightened Sunshine Corazon on the girl’s side, whose selection should have meant her own safety.

She felt every pair of eyes on her as she walked to the stage, knowing that in their eyes she was going to die male, and none of them would ever know any differently.

 

DISTRICT 9

Dottie Kazatori clutched her face in terror. Brett Bukowski looked like he’d had a bowl just before the Reaping, then sobered up very abruptly when his name got called. They were beyond doubt the shittest Tributes she could have possibly asked for. Fuck it, she’d just write them off now and hope for better ones next year. God, mentoring was a drag.

“Hi guys! Don’t worry, I slayed my entire Games with one hand tied behind my back, LITERALLY. You are the absolute safest with me. Aw, please don’t be scared! Chin up, follow me into the building, big smiles! Don’t talk to me,” she snapped at Dottie, who had possibly only opened her mouth to throw up, but in any case stopped in her tracks. Yay, Bree had them trained already. At least she could get them to bring her a few cocktails while she sat on her ass waiting for Snow to fetch her another Capitol pervert.

 

DISTRICT 10

Kitty Wilde turned to the tarantula-headed imbecile they’d paired her with and said, “Stay away from me and I promise not to kill you first.”

Joe Hart was pretty sure this girl was only fourteen or so, but he believed her. He nodded, keeping his movements slow, the way he was with the livestock. Not that he thought this girl was an animal. He’d seen her at prayers and he knew she had a lovely singing voice. Her parents were - not rich of course, but less poor than his were. He didn’t think Kitty Wilde had signed up for tesserae. Her name had probably only been in there three times. She’d been very unlucky to be picked. Of course, anyone who got picked was very unlucky, including himself.

Kitty put her nose in the air and walked ahead of him into the Justice Building. He made sure to keep a few paces behind, not wanting to break his word already. He could see her back was rigidly straight.

Joe was not afraid. He found this surprising, and supposed it was probably shock. But it felt more like… not calmness, but maybe clarity.

The thing was, Joe was stronger than he looked. New people working in the fields were always taken aback when they saw how much he could lift. And he was deft with a few tools that could be repurposed as weapons, if one chose to use them that way. He wasn’t a tragic case. He was one of the ones who stood a chance.

But - he supposed this was where the clarity arose - he knew without so much as glimpsing the arena that he could never kill Kitty. Not a child. He supposed that they were all children, including him. But he had three little brothers and sisters, and he knew there was a difference.

Joe waited again for panic to hit him, and again there was nothing. Maybe this was calmness after all, this certainty that the right thing to do was not to fight his own death.

He would use his time in the Games to help Kitty stay alive. If he had to kill to save her, he would. Those would be the only times he would take a life. And if she made it, District 10 could enjoy a year of peace.

 

DISTRICT 11

“...Rory Flanagan!”

Several young boys and girls who bore a strong resemblance to the gangly boy stumbling to the front burst into tears. Victoria eyed up Rory Flanagan as he nearly tripped on the steps, and decided to push the grim, hulking girl on the other side of the stage when it came to shmoozing the sponsors.

 

DISTRICT 12

“District twelve, I give you your tributes - Marley Rose and Sam Evans!”

There was a smattering of applause. Before it was over, the rail-thin, beautiful girl on Effie’s left fell to the ground in a faint. Effie gave a tiny scream, and covered it with a laugh. “Oh my! Poor dear, overexcited!”

Sam hurried to Marley while an aide rushed on with a glass of water. The girl’s mother, who was in Effie’s opinion _very_ large for a district resident, was now trying to get to the stage, still weeping huge, noisy tears, and… oh really, it was so unbeseeming. A couple of Peacekeepers intervened before Mrs Rose could mount the stage, thank heavens. But ugh, Haymitch Abernathy was taking advantage of the fuss to have a drink from a flask he’d ferreted on with him. It really would be nice if he’d at least _try_ to keep his Tributes alive, rather than looking on while they swooned all over the floor.

Effie beamed at the nearest camera and rattled off a stock phrase. Even _she_ wasn’t paying attention to herself.

For the thousandth time she told herself that this, too, would pass. And then she’d get a _real_ district to cover.


	2. Chapter 2

Quinn’s mentor was terrifying.

Miss Sylvester was over six foot, about fifty years old, clad in a replica of the uniform the Tributes wore in the year she won her Games. It was a sort of red tracksuit - Finn wondered if the terrain was red that year, or if the Gamemakers picked it so the Tributes couldn’t hide from each other. If Finn won, he was not going to hunt down a copy of his outfit to wear every single day. Then he remembered he wasn’t going to win.

“Irrelevant male teen, stop fidgeting this instant. It is a sign of weak character and possible sex addiction, and will certainly get you killed in the arena. Not that I care, since keeping you alive isn’t my concern.” Miss Sylvester turned to Finn’s mentor, a guy about her age who looked like a weird uncle. “Rod, anything to add?”

Mr Remington - Rod - had been snoring on the peacock blue sofa. When spoken to, he went from asleep to awake with hardly a jerk. “Sue, you’re dead on,” he said. He gave the impression he was winking even when he wasn’t winking. Actually, he only had one eye, so Finn guessed he could only blink. Finn was pretty sure he hadn’t actually heard what Sue said… no, he couldn’t call her that, too weird.

“In that case, generically attractive female teen and I take our leave.” Miss Sylvester rose, impressing Finn again with her height. Hardly anyone he met was nearly as tall as him. “We’ll be discussing strategy in the next carriage. If you come near us, I will consider it proof of sabotage, and treat your conduct as an act of war. Gentlemen.” She left. Quinn swept out behind her.

As soon as they were gone, Rod settled back down and closed his eye. “What a woman,” he murmured to himself.

This had to be Finn’s chance to do… something. Anything at all. He crossed the carriage and shook Rod’s shoulder. “Hey, don’t go to sleep! I need, you know… a strategy.”

Rod cracked open his eye. “I recommend backstabbing. I won my Games by luring my fellow district Tribute into a poison net trap. Andrea Carmichael.” He smiled in pleasant memory. “What a woman.” He closed his eye again. Two seconds later the first snore rang out.

Finn sat back and scrubbed his hands through his hair. He had no idea what to do.

Well, that wasn’t totally true. Quinn’s dad had given him one instruction.

He hadn’t expected Mr Fabray to visit him in the Justice Building. He was still crying from the five minutes he’d been given to say goodbye to his mom when Mr Fabray had walked in, slightly out of breath like he’d run from visiting Quinn. Finn just had time to be surprised when Mr Fabray grabbed him and gave him a stiff hug.

“Thank you,” he puffed. “Thank you, Finn. You did the right thing. Our family will never forget it.”

Finn was too miserable and exhausted to return the hug. Luckily it didn’t last long. Mr Fabray let go of him and immediately said, “Of course, we’ll look out for your mother after the Games.”

“Thank you,” Finn said automatically, and then, “After the Games?” He guessed there were lots of other tributes who’d be as strong or stronger than him, and definitely lots of them would be smarter. But it was a bit dickish to just assume Finn wouldn’t be coming back.

“Well, of course.” Mr Fabray smiled his most fatherly smile. “You are making such a huge sacrifice -”

Finn’s head hurt. “Mr Fabray, wait. Are you thinking that I’m going to just lay down my life for Quinn?”

The smile vanished abruptly. Finn plunged on before he could be interrupted. “Because that’s just - garbage, ok? I care about Quinn, and I’ll help her, but I’m not giving up my life before I’ve even made it in there -”

His back hit the wall, knocking the rest of his breath out of him. Mr Fabray’s face was centimetres away; specks of spittle hit Finn’s face as he spoke.

“You little shit. If you come back and Quinn doesn’t, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

“I’m not scared of you,” Finn lied. He was a bad liar. “…I’m not more scared of you than of what’s in the arena.”

Mr Fabray got even closer. “If you don’t swear right now you will make sure Quinn wins, your mother gets nothing from us, and I will find a way to drive her onto the street. Think very hard.”

Another couple of tears leaked out of Finn’s eyes. He was angry enough to throw Mr Fabray off him and - and do something stupid, probably.

But in the end, he didn’t have to think that hard. Quinn’s dad hadn’t left him another option.

In the train carriage, he sat on his haunches on the carpet, listening to the wheels clacking and Rod snoring. Maybe it didn’t matter that he had no plan. Quinn was smarter than him anyway. All he had to do was stick with her and be a - a bodyguard. And eventually, a victim.

At least Miss Sylvester would be happy.

—-

Tina liked Artie’s mentor. Mike Chang. He was young and soft-spoken, with a kind face that was also extremely hot. In fact, Tina was jealous of Artie. Her own mentor was a middle-aged woman, Wiress. She hardly ever finished sentences and kept staring over the top of Tina’s head, as if a taller, more interesting person was sitting behind her.

“I love this food,” Tina said, too loudly. Everyone looked up at her. She felt the heat rising in her face. OK, no points for scintillating conversation.

“Yeah, it’s a great last supper,” muttered Artie. He had eaten a few bites at the beginning of the meal, but lapsed into just pushing food around with his spoon. Tina had no idea how he could resist. She had inhaled everything. Her stomach hurt with acute, unfamiliar pangs of fullness.

Mike smiled at Artie. “Well, it’s not quite your last supper yet. I would eat everything you can keep down until the Games start, seriously. You need to bulk up as much as possible before the arena. And you’re right, it’s delicious,” he added to Tina. She beamed.

“Right, I wouldn’t want to be at a disadvantage in the arena,” Artie mumbled. He stabbed a dumpling with force, but didn’t eat it.

Mike looked troubled. “I’m going to speak to the Gamemakers as soon as we get to the Capitol. They’ll have to let you have your chair.”

“Don’t bother.” Artie looked up at Mike. There was no colour in his cheeks. “The best thing for me is to flop off my circle onto the mines at the start of the Games. Painless, immediate. My dad even suggested it before we left.”

The uncomfortable silence stretched out for nearly a minute. Tina tried to bury the hateful little thought that she hoped Artie didn’t push himself onto the landmines, in case it made her jump so badly she stepped off her own circle.

Mike sighed. “Listen… I don’t want to make this awkward, but we should probably do this now. Do you two want to be trained separately?”

Tina hadn’t really thought about it. She doubted she and Artie would be allies in the arena. Especially if he blew himself up in the first minute.

“What’s the point.” Artie shrugged. He picked up his fork and ate a tiny bite of beef. It looked mostly like resignation.

“Levers and pulleys,” Wiress mumbled.

Everyone jumped a little. Wiress hadn’t spoken for the last half an hour. She was gazing slightly to the left of Artie’s head.

Artie paused mid-chew. “Excuse me?”

“Assistive tech. Levers and pulleys. No power sources, no electricity - wheels stick in the mud.” Wiress’s lips moved silently for a moment, as if she was working something out. “You want something simple. The tech isn’t designed to…”

There was a pause as they all waited for the rest of the sentence, Wiress seemingly included. Eventually her face went blank and Tina could see she had drifted out of the conversation.

Artie continued to stare at Wiress, mouth slightly agape. Mike was glancing between them. To Tina’s pleasure, he was the one who spoke. “I think I have an idea.” Wiress gazed at Mike with mild curiosity. “Swap tributes. You take Artie, I’ll take Tina.”

“Can we do that?” Tina blurted. Crap, she just sounded way overeager. Oh, who was she kidding, this was the only good thing that had happened to her since her name got called.

“I don’t see why not,” Mike said. “That guy from District 12 mentors the girls every year. I mean, not well, but…”

“I’m in,” said Artie suddenly. He sat up straighter. “And I want to be trained separately.”

Another smile flitted across Wiress’s face.

“OK, Tina, do you want to start now?” Mike said.

Tina fist-pumped under the table.

—-

“Yeah, that’s perfect.”

Blaine held the pose. The little camera in Sebastian’s hands zoomed and clicked. Blaine wasn’t looking at it directly - he was meant to be affecting modesty. Sebastian had clearly never affected modesty in his life, but he seemed impressed by Blaine’s take on it.

Sebastian finally lowered the camera with a long sigh. “Oh, Blaine. You’re a dream come true.”

Blaine smiled at him without quite making eye contact. Sebastian’s remarks made him feel shivery and over-warm in a way that he couldn’t interpret as good or bad.

“I’m not sure about this, though,” Sebastian mused. He stepped into Blaine’s space and ran a finger over the shoulder of his jacket.

Sebastian had chosen the jacket, and the rest of his outfit, from a pile of clothes summoned from the nearest Avox. Blaine had got the shock of his life when he’d realised the older man waiting on them had his tongue cut down the middle. Sebastian was clearly used to this and had ordered a selection of garments from the wardrobe, and a few snacks, with a flick of the wrist. Blaine was uncomfortable, but he supposed Sebastian had spent a few years going back and forth from the Capitol - District 5 had no other living male victors. Whatever outrage Sebastian might have felt at first was bound to have dulled by now.

The bed behind them was a riot of gorgeous Capitol fabrics thrown carelessly about - by Sebastian, not the Avox man, who had originally laid everything in neat rows. Sebastian slid an arm across Blaine’s shoulders and pushed him towards the pile of clothes.

“It’s just a little boring. Muted, you know? People in the Capitol like a bit of excess. Which I totally understand, I’ve got to say.”

Blaine liked the outfit he had on now. It was classic, gentlemanly. It reminded him of the photograph above the fireplace at home, of his parents before they married and his mom became mayor, his dad in a second-hand top hat and waistcoat from a thrift shop by the square. Blaine had been getting up the courage to ask Sebastian if he could add one of the patterned fabric bows to the ensemble - he gathered they were supposed to go around his neck, and his eye had been drawn to them from the moment they were deposited on the bed.

Sebastian, however, was picking up something with a lot of buckles and metal studs. “The boy I had last year rocked this in the interview,” he said fondly. “And he only had half your looks.”

Blaine felt his ears go hot. “Won’t people notice it’s the same outfit two years in a row?”

“True… not to mention last year’s guy died in the first ten minutes. Maybe it’s cursed.” Sebastian smiled widely. Blaine shuddered. It occurred to him that Sebastian’s interest in playing dress-up might outweigh Sebastian’s care whether he survived in the arena.

“You know, I have a bit of training,” he said. “Not with real weapons, obviously, but my dad encouraged me to learn a few skills - just in case…”

“Uh-huh,” Sebastian said, returning to sorting through clothes.

“Yes,” Blaine said firmly. “I learned boxing and a little fencing. Also I was thinking the other Tributes might underestimate me because my mom’s the mayor and they’ll think I was coddled.”

“Hmm.” Sebastian’s eyes flicked up and down. “You are in pretty good condition. Some of this year’s Careers aren’t as healthy as you.”

This was more like it. “Yes, and I was thinking maybe we can take a break to nail down what my strategy should be, because I had some ideas and I’d love to run them past you -”

Blaine stuttered to a halt. Sebastian was slinking forwards, a decisive tilt to his mouth. He wrapped lean arms around Blaine’s waist and tugged him chest to chest.

Blaine stared up at him, mouth open. His ears were suddenly full of his own accelerated pulse.

“Great idea,” Sebastian breathed. Then he dipped his head and kissed him.

Blaine froze. Neurons fired without translating into action.

Sebastian’s lips parted from his with a soft wet smack. Before Blaine could react, they were back on his again, at a rougher angle now, a firm tongue pressing into his mouth. Somehow Blaine’s hands were on Sebastian’s waist, but they made no move to push him off or pull him closer. Sebastian’s grasp on him tightened and twisted and suddenly they were falling back onto the pile of riotous Capitol garments, onto the bed.

Blaine made an embarrassing choking sound. He caught his breath and tried again. “Uh. Stop?”

Sebastian stopped kissing him. He slowly raised his torso off the bed, gazing down at Blaine inscrutably.

There was a soft silken fabric under his head, what felt like a shoe digging into his back, and Sebastian’s hand still resting on his ribcage. Not heavily, but with the clear intent that he should not sit up.

Sebastian wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue. He produced a thin smile. “Hey, I get it. You haven’t done this before. No problem. To be continued.”

He patted Blaine’s side, rolled over and stretched.

“You know, I could use a break. This stuff will keep. I’m going to ask the chef for another few courses. Shall I order you something? I might break into the booze cabinet too, although I wouldn’t recommend getting a muddled head this close to the Games…” Sebastian’s back was turned to Blaine as he climbed off the bed.

“Um, thank you,” Blaine said carefully. “I’ll have some of whatever you’re having. Except the alcohol.”

Sebastian turned his head so Blaine caught a sliver of his face over his shoulder. “Whatever you want. That’s what I’m here for.”

He vanished.

Fifteen minutes later it was obvious that he wasn’t coming back. Blaine lay perfectly still, hugging himself in silence.

Sebastian had forgotten him, or was punishing him. Either way, Blaine’s mistake was clear.

—-

“I can’t take one more second of her.”

Kurt looked up from the amazing plate of bolognese he was eating (and Puck was inhaling). Mercedes stood at the door to their compartment. Kurt was pretty sure she’d worn that expression just before bashing her final opponent in her Games to death with a spiked mace.

Puck somehow swallowed his mouthful of food without choking. “Dude, I got sick of her on the drive to the train. She’s so annoying I almost killed us both. That could still happen, by the way, so keep her away from me.” He resumed eating, shoving in a forkful of spaghetti the size of his head.

Kurt clucked his tongue. “Sit down. Eat. Commiserate.” He held out a chair. Mercedes dropped into it, grabbed a fork and brandished it. Puck inched away.

“She said that her dads were going to find and pay someone to take her place just as soon as they got hold of a decent wig, but until that happens she’s going to prepare for Caesar Flickerman’s interview with meditation and motivational speeches. Then she did vocal runs until I left.”

Kurt nodded. “A sound strategy. Probably her best hope, to be honest.”

“She said she didn’t need my help because I lack her performative instincts and she prefers self-directed work.” Mercedes air-quoted through most of this. Kurt laughed. “Oh, but she said I could send you in if I wanted because she needs makeup advice and you look as if you understand problem skin,” Mercedes added sweetly. Kurt’s jaw dropped. Puck snorted and sprayed the tablecloth with flecks of beef.

“Oh my god. My skin is luminous. Who does she think she is?”

Mercedes shook her head. “I don’t know, but I’m worried. Forget the Games, she’s going to appear on a live broadcast and  _talk_. What if the audience rush the stage and kill her?”

“Forget it, they’ll think she’s one of them,” said Puck. “Probably campaign to get some other kid sent in her place. All those old homos will want to adopt her. No offence.”

Kurt rolled his eyes.

Mercedes slammed both hands on the table and snapped, “Shut your mouth.”

The dining carriage fell as silent as if she’d fired a pistol into the ground. Puck froze. Then he grunted and buried himself back in his bowl of spaghetti.

In a way Kurt was glad Puck had decided to be an asshole. It was time to get back on track.

“OK, Puckerman. Forget Rachel for now. We need a strategy.” He gave Mercedes a look. She nodded, scraped a couple of spoonfuls onto an empty plate and carried it out of the room.

Puck shrugged. “Get the best weapons, shoot everyone in the nutsack. I think I can handle strategy.”

“You are an actual child.” Kurt ran his fingers over the nearest row of cutlery, stopping at the smallest, sharpest knife. He flipped it into his hand, light as a dream, and flung it at Puck. It zipped through the air and buried itself in the edge of the table, right in front of his dinner plate.

Puck leapt backwards. “Fuck!” His bullish face contorted as he stared at Kurt. He looked around wildly for a weapon.

Kurt got to his feet and dodged Puck’s knife and fork as they arced at his head. He leaned against the table and watched Puck try to pull out the knife embedded in the top. After seconds of struggle, Puck fell back, fists clenched.

“I ought to beat you up for that.”

“You could try.”

“Was that supposed to teach me a lesson or something?”

“Uh, obviously. The lesson is: you’re a moron. Leave the strategy to me.” Kurt sat back down, gesturing at Puck’s chair.

Visible muscles jumped in Puck’s jaw. In the end, he folded his arms and stayed standing.

“Fine then. Here’s what you do. Get in with the Career pack.”

“Screw those assholes. Puckersaurus is at the top of the food chain, I don’t need to share.”

“Oh my god. You are not the top of the food chain. You are a muscle-bound idiot with no formal training. The Career kids will know how to use  _weapons_. The first thing they will do is pick off anyone who might be a threat to them. Without an alliance, you’re dead in the first few days, if not hours.” Kurt leaned forward. “Get in with the Careers during training, and they’ll make sure you survive the first bloodbath at the Cornucopia. After you’ve got access to weapons, food and water, and you’ve picked off most of the weaker kids, you can strike out on your own.”

Puck opened his mouth.

The door to the carriage swung open.

A tiny figure swathed in black gazed into the room through wide, kohl-rimmed eyes.

Kurt sighed. “Can we help you, Rachel?”

“Nothing can help me now,” Rachel breathed.

Kurt looked at her more closely. What he had mistaken for funeral drapes was in fact a floor-length, feathered cloak over a billowing black dress. Both garments bunched around her feet and trailed on the floor behind her. Kurt couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be part of the look or if she was in denial of her shortness.

“Why is there an eagle on your head?” he asked.

“It’s a vulture.” Rachel reached up to straighten it. It resembled a macabre turban. “I am weighed down by death.”

It did look heavy. “Your stylist may want to go in a different direction,” Kurt informed her. He turned back to Puck. “As I was saying. You’ve got your strategy now. Time to practice being charming.”

Puck’s look of horror almost made today worthwhile. Kurt even smiled as he spoke to Rachel. “Could you give us some privacy please?”

Rachel sighed tragically and swished from the room. She tripped over her cape as she left, but righted herself. Puck watched her go with a look of appalled admiration.

“If that chick outlives me, somebody punch my corpse in the face.” He glanced at Kurt and sighed. “Yeah, whatever, I guess I’ll ask the dickbag crew to tag along with me.”

Kurt clapped his hands. “Wise decision. Now onto the physical stuff.”

Puck perked up. “You’re going to teach me how to throw knives?”

Kurt smiled brightly. “No, I’m going to teach you how to duck.”

—-

“Duck,” barked Jesse St. James, and threw a hairbrush at Unique’s head.

Several hours ago, she would have at least tried to dodge. Up to one hour ago, after spending the entire evening jumping out of her skin whenever Jesse bellowed and flung random objects at her, she would have stood a good chance of actually avoiding it. But it had been dark outside for ages now. She had been on her feet since dinner, which Jesse had rushed her through anyway because “nutrition is for winners, Wade”. Parts of her kept going numb at random, as if her hands or chin or stomach were somehow disconnecting from her body as a whole and floating off into space. This had been the longest day of her life. At that moment she didn’t even think it would hurt to get hit in the face with a tortoiseshell hairbrush.

Turns out, it did hurt quite a bit. She managed not to screech, and clutched her stinging forehead while her eyes watered.

Jesse loomed over her. “Wade, explain to me why you’re more incompetent now than you were when we started? Clearly my talent is not rubbing off on you, which I do not understand because I am excessively gifted as well as generous, but if anything I seem to be siphoning your insignificant gifts out of you, and I don’t even need to add that tainted well water to my stores of awesome.”

Unique wasn’t even sure she understood all of that.

Jesse strode to the side board and picked up a place mat. “Your enemies will be armed with every pointy throwy thing you can imagine, and they will be pointing, and throwing, them at you. Now pretend this is a ninja star.” He took aim at her.

“Oh my god, just stop,” Unique wailed.

The placemat flipped out of Jesse’s hand, missed Unique by miles and bounced off the wall. Jesse froze, throwing arm raised over his head. He looked like an outraged, confused Greek statue. Unique’s brain found this hilarious, and saw no reason to prevent her from giggling hysterically.

Jesse’s expression of  _how dare you_  intensified. Unique started to cry with laughter.  _Dead puppies_ , she mentally prodded herself towards sobriety.  _Dead children. Dead me in seven days_. That did it. She took in a slow breath, suddenly feeling light-headed and weak and starving. It would be so much worse in the Games.

Jesse was shaking his head. “This is unacceptable.” He looked forlorn. For the first time, Unique felt sympathetic towards him. “I’ll remind you what is at stake here.  _My reputation_.”

Scratch the sympathy. “Huh?”

Jesse began to pace the carriage. “You don’t know what it’s like, you’ve spent your whole life in a slum, but me? I come here every year. I see the way we are viewed by the Capitol… the other victors… even the Tributes, if they’re from One, Two or Four. We’re losers, Wade.” His face twisted in obvious pain. “Only Eleven and Twelve have fewer victors than us. We were tied with Nine, but then that girl Bree who won’t shut up won last year.”

Unique remembered. “Yeah, she was annoying.”

Jesse had stopped pacing now. His shoulders slumped; even his curls seemed to wilt. Unique suspected he thought they were having a moment. Now might be a good time to ask if she could take a shower and go to bed.

“And now I have to see everyone again and watch them laugh at me when you die on the first day, and it’s going to be all your fault.” Jesse pouted. “I have one week to make a man out of you, and what hope is there when you can’t dodge a simple throwing star?”

_Screw it_. “I’m a girl, sir,” said Unique flatly.

“You’re telling me,” Jesse said with a sigh.

Yep. That was about as far as this conversation was going. Unique turned for the carriage door. “Good night, sir,” she said firmly, and stepped out into the corridor. Nobody stopped her.

—-

Marley gradually blinked herself awake. This bed was the most comfortable place she’d ever slept, and the rocking of the train underneath her felt like she was lying in a tree, letting the wind gently toss her back and forth. There was a weight deep inside her anchoring her in place and drawing her eyes closed again. There was no reason to get up. She lay still and quiet.

Time passed. Effie Trinket knocked on the door and told her she had a “big, big, big day” ahead. Marley ignored her. She pulled one of the luxurious pillows over her head to make it easier to ignore her again when she came back. Marley imagined smothering herself in the pillow, never having to face the Games.

Eventually the door clicked open. It didn’t have a lock, after all. Effie’s perfume intruded into the room.

“Wake up, dear,” she said, a little sharply.

Marley curled into a ball. She was being childish, but she didn’t feel carefree. She was fourteen years old. She wondered if she was the youngest in the Hunger Games this year.

Effie clearly didn’t know how to deal with children or teenagers. “You’ll miss breakfast if you don’t get up now!”

Marley hadn’t eaten breakfast once in her life. Last year, a girl in her class told her she’d end up as fat as her mom, and Marley stopped eating lunch, too. She’d turned down tesserae three years in a row, and it had done her no good in the end, anyway. Onstage yesterday wasn’t the first time she’d passed out. Her friend Ryder had helped her cover it up and dabbed water on her face. But she was never going to see him again.

After a pause, Effie’s heels clacked out of the room. Maybe she’d gone to get Haymitch. The thought of his alcohol breath caused Marley’s stomach to turn over. Suddenly the bed was stifling; she wanted the cool bathroom tiles.

She made it to the shower, avoiding the mirror above the sink. Even though the water was warm, she stood under it shivering.

She didn’t want to be sick any more. She had wanted to get better. But she had expected more time.

After her shower, she found the plainest, most comfortable clothes in the dresser and a thick pair of socks, and padded out to find the dining carriage.

She spotted Haymitch by the window, grimacing out into the sunlight. Sam and Effie were sitting at the table. Sam was hunched over, not eating. Effie was straight-backed, her face wooden, picking at a plate of pork and rice. She looked up quickly when Marley entered.

“Oh, hello dear! We were just finishing. Can I get you something?”

She was acting as though Marley was only five minutes late. “No thank you, Effie.” Marley managed a smile for her, pulling out an empty chair and sitting gingerly on the edge. The leftover food smell made her stomach flip over again.

The four of them sat in silence. Effie took occasional bites, as if carrying out normal behaviour would cover the awkwardness. Marley wondered if the weirdness in the room was all her fault, or if Haymitch had done something inappropriate before she arrived. But then Effie would be irritable, rather than shooting Marley nervous little glances.

Haymitch hauled himself out of his seat by the window. Everyone looked up. “Going for a top-up,” he slurred, and made his way to the sideboard.

Sam spoke up. “Can I have one?”

Effie’s eyes widened. She put her fork down. “It is two in the afternoon!”

Sam cast his eyes down. “We’re getting to the Capitol this evening, right? Who knows if I’ll have the chance again.”

“There will definitely be wine in your rooms at the Capitol,” Effie said firmly. “Unfortunately,” she murmured in Haymitch’s direction.

Haymitch smiled back at her and raised his glass. He poured out another one, nearly filling the glass to the brim, stumbled to the table and slid it along the polished wood to Sam. “Go wild, kid,” he said.

Effie glowered at him as he made it back to the window seat.

“Can I try some?” Marley said to Sam, surprising herself.

This was evidently the last straw for Effie. She dropped her knife and fork with a clang and pushed her chair away from the table. At her full height, aided by several inches of wig and ornamental hair pieces, she passed for intimidating.

“When you’re all ready to take yourselves seriously, meet me in the next carriage,” she said icily, and swept from the room in a clatter of high heels.

Haymitch toasted her again, and belched. “A lovely girl,” he said. “Drink up, you two. You’ll need time to get serious again after that.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, but offered Marley his glass without comment. She peered into it. The wine was a sick, flat yellow.

“Maybe I shouldn’t.” She didn’t want to disappoint Effie.

Instead, Haymitch stared at her with a curling lip. Marley felt her face heat up. Ignoring him, she passed the glass back to Sam, who accepted it cheerfully and took a large gulp. Then he coughed and sprayed most of it onto the table. Marley jumped; Haymitch guffawed. Sam laughed while pulling a face.

“That is so gross.”

“It grows on you,” Haymitch chortled.

Sam held his nose and took another swig. Marley suddenly felt a pang of disgust at the thought of him spitting it out again, followed by a heart-gripping fear that she might be sick if he did. Before she could see how well Sam handled his second taste of wine, she got to her feet, looking anywhere but at the table.

“I need to go,” she gasped, and took a step away.

The carriage spun. Her legs were rubber. Her body ceased to feel human, or even real. The world quieted, faded, then returned; she was miraculously still standing, but not under her own power. Sam had a hand under her elbow, and she was leaning against him, side to side. Sam awkwardly grabbed her shoulder with his other hand and manoeuvred her backwards until her knees hit the chair she’d just tried to leave and she collapsed into it without feeling the impact. Sam’s panicky face swam in front of her; he was telling Haymitch to get Effie.

Seconds later, Sam was being pushed out of the way, and Haymitch’s scowling countenance came into view instead. He was speaking sharply; Marley could make out the words. “Don’t bother Effie. There’s nothing she can do.”

Haymitch was grabbing her hand. Then putting a glass into it. Marley blinked down at it. A clear liquid. Haymitch was urging it towards her face. She was terrified it was alcoholic, and tried to turn her head, but he managed to force it to her lips and when some of it slipped down, it was just water. She stopped struggling and let him help her drink it.

Finally, her eyes focussed properly. She came back into herself. She had got a lot of water down her front and chin, and her head was full of a pounding pain. Sam was standing to the side, staring down at her, while Haymitch crouched at her feet, staring up.

Marley’s insides roiled with shame. She didn’t know whose eyes to avoid. Sam’s alarm and pity were as bad as Haymitch’s contempt. How could she ask Sam to feel sorry for her, when he was almost as likely to die next week as she was?

Haymitch put his hands on his thighs and hauled himself upright, with a lot of creaking joints. “All right, looks like we’re done here,” he grunted.

Sam glanced, rabbit-like, from Marley to the door to Haymitch. “Screw it, I’m getting Effie.” He set off for the next carriage.

“She won’t thank you,” Haymitch said over his shoulder. Marley wondered who he was referring to. Either way, Sam ignored him.

With Sam out of the room, Haymitch turned back to Marley. “Need some air?”

Marley couldn’t tell if he even wanted to help her. He had shown no interest since she and Sam got on the train in preparing them for the Games. Perhaps he only cared now on a drunken whim. Or maybe he’d be punished if a Tribute was taken ill before making it into the arena.

When she didn’t answer, Haymitch scrubbed a hand violently through his hair as if he thought it might sober him up. He stumped to her chair, hunkered down again, got an arm around her back and hoisted her upright. After a few false starts, she was on her feet and they were moving towards the nearest window. Haymitch smashed his hip into the table on the way and rattled off three swear words Marley had never heard before. He wrestled with the window catch, his hand shaking so violently Marley eventually put her own hand over his to help him. Hers was shaking too, but it was steadier than his. Finally the window slid open with a sudden violence, dousing them both in a howlingly cold slip-stream.

Marley disentangled herself from Haymitch and stood with her palms pressed to the sill for balance. The wind whipping her face was painful, but it felt like what she needed.

When she thought she felt better, Marley shut the window. Once again, there was nothing but the soft rattling of the train. She felt like she’d been through an old-fashioned blood-letting. Now, in the aftermath, she stood calmer and emptier.

Haymitch slouched back to the table and lowered himself heavily into a chair. Sam’s drink was left on the table; he picked it up and drained half of it. Marley watched him and felt a body-consuming hatred, such that she had never experienced for another person before. She breathed slowly and evenly and watched the liquid go down.

Haymitch lowered the glass with a sigh. “Guess your boy didn’t get Effie after all.”

Marley couldn’t care whether Sam told Effie or not. She had a week, and then all of their kindness here would be pointless. “Are you at least going to help Sam, too?” she blurted.

Haymitch looked round at her, squinting into the sunlight hitting him through the window. “I don’t see him falling about the place, do you?”

Marley wanted to beat her fists on his chest. “With the Hunger Games. Are you just going to let him die? Is this what you do every year? Get drunk and stupid and throw up on yourself? Have parties by yourself while we go on TV and die?”

Haymitch’s chair scraped back, but he didn’t stand up. He just looked at her, still squinting. “Do you want to live?” he said.

“I want Sam to live.” Marley started to cry. Her hands were in fists at her sides and she pounded them through thin air. “I want them all to live. Why should any of them die just so I can survive?”

Haymitch made a sharp sound that might have been a laugh. For a while, he didn’t speak. Finally, he said, “If you’ve got a death wish, there’s nothing for me to do about it.”

He turned back to the table, and downed the rest of the wine.

Effie burst into the room, followed by Sam. Effie was swathed in a fluffy pink dressing gown with a matching towel wrapped around her head. Inexplicably, she was also wearing her high heels from before. Haymitch snickered and whistled.

“I was in the bath,” Effie gasped. She must have jumped straight out of the tub and run there. In fact, Sam had a dumbstruck look that suggested he might have seen something he shouldn’t. “My poor dear! You’re making a habit of this, aren’t you!” She gave a frantic laugh, ran to Marley and placed a hand on her forehead.

Marley assured her that she was ok while Effie prattled about nerves, and allowed herself to be steered into the next carriage. Here was a beautiful sofa with green embroidery crisscrossing it, big enough for four people, and a full-sized screen attached to the opposite wall.

“I was going to suggest we quickly rewatch the Reaping in here, just before we arrive at the Capitol, so you could see your opponents, maybe talk strategy?”

Sam, sloping along behind them, flinched. Marley sank onto the sofa, feeling tiny atop it. She had no idea what the other Tributes were like.

“OK,” she said. “That sounds good.”

It wasn’t good. There were the usual bloodthirsty lot from One and Two, although One’s Tributes looked less sure of themselves than in previous years. Then the weeping girl and the boy in the wheelchair from Three. The pale, polite, stricken-looking pair from Five. The girl from Seven looked like she could rip tree-trunks in half. The boy from Eight had scared, soft eyes; the girl was as tiny as a child. Nine’s Tributes were even worse, both of them shaking and crying onstage. The girl from Ten looked like the youngest so far, but her face was vicious. The boy from Eleven tripped on the steps.

Effie coughed and shut the tape off before it could show Marley fainting. “Well, there we are!” she said. “Don’t tell anyone at the Capitol, but personally I think it’s a weak-looking lot this year. Present company excepted!”

Haymitch snorted. Marley tuned them both out. Bits of the video kept replaying in her mind. It was strange to be terrified of twenty-two people while also feeling so, so sorry for them.

And Sam… it was time for her to feel sorry, and terrified, over him, too. She peered at him. He was hunched down in his seat, one foot tapping quickly on the floor, not looking at the screen.

Effie jumped to her feet. “Nearly there! Time to get up and dressed.” She gave Marley a pointed look. “I’m happy to give fashion tips if you’re stuck for ideas! I know it must be difficult with only the clothes in District Twelve for inspiration.”

“You’re an inspiration to us all, Effie,” said Haymitch gravely. He waved unsteadily towards the door. “Get lost, children. Go and be pretty.”

In reality, Marley loved clothes. She and her mom had never owned anything half as beautiful as what was now available to her in her carriage, but she pulled out everything from the dresser and ran them through her hands, just to briefly imagine them as hers. She chose a flowing purple skirt with an uneven hemline, and a fawn-coloured top with no sleeves. She draped a scarf around her shoulders and bound her hair into a low side ponytail that curled over her shoulder. She had to make do with the boots she’d worn to the Reaping, aware of the obvious holes in the heel and toe. She didn’t know how to do makeup, so she just washed her face and hoped that would be enough.

When Effie came to fetch her, she did a bad job of hiding her surprise. Marley smiled for the first time since hearing her name called.

“Shall we?” she said, holding out her arm.

She had no belongings to bring with her. She met Sam back in the dining carriage, watching the Capitol draw close through the window. He, too, did a double-take when he saw her. The Capitol was apparently a bigger draw for him, though, as he immediately went back to craning for a first sighting. He moved over so Marley could share the window. She could only see rushing scrubland; then, the first buildings began to flash by. Her stomach swooped.

“Oh god, it’s enormous,” she said.

“Twenty-five storeys for the average skyscraper,” said Sam with enthusiasm.

Marley shuddered. The multi-coloured buildings were going by so fast it was like looking into a candy jar being shaken. Then the train began to slow down, and that was even worse. Soon she’d be on the platform, one step closer to the Games. Her heart sped to a gallop.

Effie appeared with Haymitch in tow. She was as dazzling as a Christmas tree. He was scowling in a suit that she’d probably forced him into. Somehow it made him look even less reputable than normal.

The train stopped. Marley inhaled sharply. Sam made a movement towards her, then stopped herself. He too must be trying to learn to think of her as the enemy.

Somehow Marley made it to the front of the train, then the door to the platform unassisted. Then the doors slid apart, and they were shot through with camera flashes.

Sam hung back, suddenly uncertain. Marley held her head up and stepped past him.

The cameras surrounded her as soon as her feet touched the platform. She kept moving forward, not acknowledging them, into the beginning of the end.


End file.
